


Words Bitter and Poor

by raedbard



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-04
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It takes a little while for him to notice the absence of darkness in his life."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Bitter and Poor

It takes a little while for him to notice the absence of darkness in his life. For almost for a month he has been talking until he thinks he will lose his voice and wrestling over strategy with Scott Holcomb whilst half-wondering exactly what the guy is doing here at all. But lately he has winced from the sun and wished for shade and tried to avoid the beach, even though he knows it's the one place they should probably have him set up a permanent base. And he smiles, sourly, at the idea of that - appreciating the symbolism when he imagines the campaign and all its hangers-on, and himself, being slowly washed out to sea. Scott notices; tells him to get himself together, but as he walks away Sam notices the little shake of the head - _who does this guy think he's fooling anyway?_ \- and that makes him smile for real, and get out his game face. He'll lose with a little style, or not at all. And after that, the longing for darkness only comes in the odd hours that he is alone, and in those hours he'll pour himself a glass of Jack Daniels and stare at the wall, and wait for the sleep that never seems to come.

He doesn't realise what's going on until the start of the second month, when he is idly clearing files off his laptop one morning and comes across a document which is entirely composed of old, saved emails. All from one person. All short, to the point. All to do with the business of words, which is why he kept them (or so he had said to himself) like a book of wisdom. He reads, forcing himself to go slowly, to treat every word like it is the last. And he doesn't want to think about the fact that he probably won't need any of this advice, not anymore.

He reads for over an hour, until Scott comes in to tell him what expression to wear on his face for the next meeting. For a second he wants to do something ... dramatic. But then he smiles, and stands up for his duty and doesn't think - _forces_ the thoughts back into the darkness - about anything else for the rest of the day.

It's past midnight. He's exhausted, sweating, his feet and back and shoulders ache and the words in his head seem inane, pointless. A shower, he thinks, a shower and then bed. He has the water turned up a little too hot, that's good; something more insistent than the pain, something which might drown the words. It does not, or not _all_ the words.

His voice comes back with memory, without the shapes of the words in front of him. Sam listens and wishes and feels all the broken things inside him buoyed up on the tide of a soft voice which never sounded all that dark to Sam whilst he could still hear it; that never made him want to be anything except someone _he_ might be proud of. That he never has fallen out of love with, from the first day to this.

He considers getting out of the shower, calling him, just to listen. But it wouldn't be right, for either of them. They both have speeches to think about after all. And anyway, imagination is better. Imagination, and a little step away from reality, will let him press his body up against the wall of the shower and feel the residual coolness of the tile against his chest and open his mouth under the spray of the water and try to feel the kisses he has never had. But it is the cloying darkness - the depression, why not be honest? - which makes him fist his hand around his cock, gently at first, pressing his fingertips into the long vein and around the head, but tighter then and with growing desperation, with his eyes tightly shut and his own voice repeating one word over and over into the sound of the shower. In his ears is the slow note of his own name being repeated in that voice, and he comes with the elongation of the 'a' - request, question, sometimes, he could believe even a strange, strained devotion. He whispers the response one more time, water slurring the second syllable, and sinks down to the floor, and lets the water run over his face, _missing_ him.

When he comes out, feeling despair hanging around him heavier than the air, he sees the red light on his answering-machine. He presses the button, and feels his heart jump.

_Sam? It's me. Apparently we're coming out to help you. Any prayers that you have, better offer them up now. See you soon._


End file.
